Where the Soul Resides
by Black-Angel-001
Summary: Set about S2 Still struggling with their father's death and each other, the brothers are drawn to a case in a New England town.  If they can't get their act together then one of them just might stay on the side of wonderland.
1. Chapter 1

**Where the Soul Resides**

**Black-Angel-001: so here's the other multi-chapter fic i promised you guys. it took me a while to find what i needed research wise, even longer to decide the season setting. on that note, it's early season 2 (because as much as i'd like to write a fic for season 6, i have to get the head space of the characters a bit more before i can) so the boys are in their little seperate space...you know what i'm talking about. anywhos hows! hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, its characters, or anything related to it. This is for fun and enjoyment, not profit.**

**Where the Soul Resides**

"So, I think I found a gig for us," Sam said with a little apprehension.

The fairly small and uncozy hotel room was like any other they'd stayed in over the years and was unremarkable in every way; it had no redeeming quality that Sam could see, not that he was looking. The brothers took up most of the space that wasn't occupied by beds or chairs, their bags the rest, and it didn't help the dark mood that seemed to cling to Dean like a second skin now and days. Sam didn't look at his older brother while he spoke, instead choosing to tap pointlessly on the keyboard of his laptop. He realized that the tiny sound might aggrivate Dean and started to chew the tip of his pen. He stopped that when he realized that might aggrivate Dean, too. Sam had to resist the urge to sigh and made himself sit still and not fidgit. It was like anything Sam did aggrivated Dean, including breathing. He wasn't even sure if Dean would snap his head off for the mere mention of a job and Sam hadn't even gotten to the part that would really set his brother off.

Dean grunted from the bathroom, shoving shaving kit and other toiletries ruthlessly into the small bag. When he came out to put it away he didn't look at Sam, and plopped onto Sam's neatly made bed to watch tv. Dean kind of hoped it would annoy the kid into saying something, since Sam was almost OCD about the bed being relatively neat after it was made. If Sam said something provoking, Dean could explode at him and get a release for the anger and energy he had. He heard Sam shift a little in his chair and waited for it but was disappointed when Sam didn't take the bait.

Somehow, it made him angrier.

"It's in a coastal town in Maine, not really small town but close enough. There's been about ten deaths this year at a Victorian bed and breakfast type of thing." He risked a glance over to Dean, finding him absorbed in channel flipping and went on after clearing his throat. "The M.E. can't find any apparant cause for the deaths, it's like they all just-" He cut himself off, biting his lip.

Dean visibly tensed, thumb poised over the remote button. He knew what Sam had almost said, could hear it as plainly as if it had been said out loud.

_Like they all just dropped dead._

The memory of his father on the floor, then on the hospital gurney slammed into Dean's mind like a tidal wave and he flinched briefly at it before locking it back up again. Four months, give or take, and it still hurt, still cut deep. Dean turned his hurt and pain into anger and began to turn it to the one person he had easy access to: Sam.

Four months, give or take, and Sam was still unfairly taking the punishment.

Dean locked that thought back up again too.

For a few minutes, neither said anything. Sam, because he was too afraid that Dean really would go off, Dean because he knew very well Sam was almost anticipating a beat down, verbal or physical, and Dean didn't really want to suffer through anymore emo broody silence in the car. In the end, Dean rolled over, back to Sam, and closed his eyes. He heard Sam sigh and tap something on the laptop before leaning back and going quiet; Dean could hardly hear him breath. Satisfied that Sam was aware of the 'Don't freakin' talk to me' sign all but written in bold letters on his back, Dean pretended to sleep, Sam pretended to not be there, and they both pretended that everything was okay.

It was an hour later before Dean asked about the rest of the information on the job in Maine. Sam didn't have much, just that all the victim's had stayed at that bed and breakfast for one night, and was found dead the next morning. None of them had anything in common that he could find besides the obvious and he doubted he'd find anything until they got there. Dean grumbled about it mostly because it would require research and interviews, but said they would leave in ten minutes then slammed into the bathroom.

Sam leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He knew Dean wasn't completely happy with the job; he never had liked the 'look it up first, then shoot later' jobs, and now tried to avoid them whenever he could. But Sam needed the escape research brought him, the complete lack of thought beyond what he was doing. It was only fair, he rationalized as he moved to get their bags together and out to the Impala. They'd done plenty of jobs that were straightforward because Dean needed it, or thought he did anyway. Well, Sam needed a job like this so he could try to get his head in a space to deal with his brothe again.

**Black-Angel-001: and there's the setup. doesn't seem like much right now, but hopefully it will turn out alright. please review and let me know if it sucked badly or not.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Where the Soul Resides**

**Black-Angel-001: i apologize for the wait but with the holidays and all i hope you guys understand. now then, to get on with the second chapter!**

**Where the Soul Resides**

The New England town they arrived in was relatively small and typically historic, and about ten or so miles from a major city. It had a charming type of name that was also fairly typical of others like it; New Haven Cove boasted a low crime rate, a good family and retirement air, and plenty of shops for finding that rare item you were looking for. It was between big towns and citites, close enough to be accomidating but far enough that after driving all day (or all night or both) you were glad for the many small and locally owned bed and breakfasts with soft mattresses, proper water heaters, excellent food (with a complimentary breakfast) and even better rates. It was quaint, quiet, and just out of the way enough to be unsuspecting of dangers in any form and properly appalled at any kind of tragedy.

It was the type of town Dean and Sam had seen time and time again, both with their father and travelling together. It was also the type of town that was welcoming of most strangers even if they kept reservations, especially for the strangers who asked lots of questions and boasted about being reporters from some big city paper. But the brothers knew how to do their jobs and do them well; it didn't take long for Sam's charm and puppy eyes to work their magic on the motherly owner of the bed and breakfast they were staying at.

Mrs. Emily Stratford took one look at the brothers and decided that they needed someone to take care of them, even if it was only for a little while. She promised them big meals, which were the norm there, and plenty of cookies and cakes to snack on in between. When they asked about the murders, she tsked and shook her head sadly.

"Such a horrible thing to happen, and here of all places! They were all such nice young men, too, very polite. Well, except for that Mr. Eric Long fellow. He was a bit...shifty, if you know what I mean. But still, he didn't cause any trouble and was quiet enough, they all were. Solemn, too, I remember that."

"Mrs. Stratford, do you have any idea what killed them," asked Dean as they followed the widow up the stairs to their room.

"Why, the paper said it was a heart attack or something of the like," she replied, a little uneasy. Her eyes cut to the left nervously before staring straight ahead again.

Sam and Dean caught the edge in her voice and Sam jumped in. "But we were wondering what you thought did it. Your family has owned this place for quite some time right?"

"Since before the second war," Mrs. Stratford said proudly. "I really wouldn't know I'm afraid; I'm sorry. Here we are." Stopping in front of one of the doors, she turned the brass knob and opened the door. Stepping inside the room, she nodded to herself as she looked around. "I hope you're comfortable here. Towels and sheets are fresh, the windows open to a beautiful street view. If you need anything, just use the phone or come and get me and we'll see about getting it taken care of."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stratford," Sam said because he knew Dean wouldn't if he could help it. She closed the door behind her when she left, smiling and talking a little to herself.

In silence the brothers put their bags away, set their shaving kits in the bathroom, and pulled out the computer and few sheets of paper they had with information. They moved around each other in a wary silent manner, and although they tried to avoid it, they sometimes ran into each other, literally. It made the tension rise in the room until Dean grabbed his jacket, muttered a short, clipped message, and stormed out of the room. Sam stayed in his seat on the bed with a paper in hand, eyes glued to the door as if that would make it re-open and his brother come back. Then he gave himself a self-degrading shake of the head and looked back to the paper.

If just staring at a door would make Dean show back up, and get them back to being brothers, not just strangers who inhabited the same space, things would have been fixed a long time ago. Hell, if it did that then it would fix everything else too: Dad wouldn't have died, Jess wouldn't have died, growing up would have been full of different aspects, their mom would still be alive. Sam shook his head again. While they were thinking the impossible, why not add in world peace and no scary monsters in the dark?

With a resigned sigh to a night spent mostly alone and full of staring at a screen, Sam settled himself deeper into the propped up pillows and got to work.

Since New Haven Cove was a 'small and highly respectable town' it didn't really have a bar. It had a pub though, and as long as it served alchohol that was all Dean was really worried about. If he felt a twinge of guilt and _whatthehellWinchester_ at leaving Sam alone in a house that was killing people to do research by himself, Dean quickly squashed it with a swig of beer. _Sam_ was the one who wanted to come here to begin with, it was _his_ case, not Dean's, so Sam could have fun doing the leg work mostly by himself.

Even after three beers Dean wasn't able to fully convince himself of it.

**Black-Angel-001: lotsa filler right now, lotsa set up. it'll be worth it i promise, just bear with me!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Where the Soul Resides**

Sam was in bed by the time Dean came in around one in the morning. He wasn't asleep, couldn't really be without knowing Dean had come back. Dean was quiet as he moved around the room, taking off his jacket, boots and jeans. It wasn't until Dean was settled in the bed next to him and began to lightly snore that Sam was able to fall asleep.

The next morning found Sam awake long before Dean. He was sitting upright on the bed, computer in his lap and papers spread around him, knuckle absently in his mouth. He kept glancing over at his brother, contemplating and thinking (too much, Dean would say) and trying to focus on the case. he more Sam thought about it, the more he decided that he'd practically dragged Dean into this one. Sure, Dean dragged him into cases he didn't agree on, but Sam could handle that. Dean, though, he hated being made to do anything he didn't want to as much as Sam did, and considering how the vic's had died...yeah, it was a hell of a case to make his brother do. His consiounse ate and nawed at him until finally when the rest of the house started to emitt sounds of others rising, Sam went downstairs to the kitchen and started going through cabinets. He figured Dean wouldn't be up and around for another thirty minutes and that gave him plenty of time.

Once his prize had been secured, Sam took the two mugs back upstairs with him, pausing a moment outside their room to look at a mirror he'd only half noticed before. It looked like it was made from pure brass, and judging from the scenes of rabbits, playing cards, Humpty Dumpty, and a little girl intracatly crafted from the metal, the mirror was based on the 'Alice in Wonderland' series for a child. The condition of the mirror was excellent and Sam was savvy enough to admit it was more than likely very expensive. With one last look at the frame, Sam carefully opened the door to his and Dean's room and stepped inside, never noticing the slight ripple of the mirror's glass.

Dean woke like he usually did, with a start. His eyes roamed the unfamiliar room he was in before he rolled over to his side. In the few seconds it took to accomplish that movement, Dean had remembered where they were and why. Shifting so he was sitting up he scrubbed a hand over his face, ran it through his hair. Blinking blearily Dean looked next to him, at Sam's bed. His little brother was already up and dressed, alternatly tapping on the keyboard of the laptop and scribbling on a piece of paper. Sam didn't bother with morning pleasentries and Dean didn't either; instead, he got up, grabbed some clothes and headed out the hall to the bathroom.

About five minutes later Dean came in, still slightly damp, but looking more awake. As he put on his boots, Dean took in the room. He hadn't really noticed it last night, even less so when he'd come in. Everything was neatly in it's place, and their things were organized efficently. Sam was still on the bed with the laptop, surrounded by more papers with his neat scrawl covering them. He'd glanced up at Dean when his brother came in but otherwise kept his eyes on the computer. Dean couldn't decide if he was glad about it or sad. He looked his little brother over. It was pretty obvious Sam had stayed up all night, probably waiting for Dean to come back, he thought with a slight grimace which he quickly shrugged off. He never asked Sam to wait up for him, and the fact that those dark circles under Sam's eyes were darker had absolutely nothing to do with him. Just like last night though, he couldn't quite convince himself of that.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, there's hot chocolate on the dresser, if you want it." His eyes seemed to be glued to the screen.

Dean glanced to the afore mentioned furniture and did indeed see two mugs, one steaming. With a wary glance he went over and picked it up, breathing in the sweet aroma. He took a sip and his eyes went wide.

"You made it?" It was the first time in a while that there wasn't any anger in his tone, just pleased surprise.

"Mm. She even had sweetened condensed milk so," he finished with a shrug and a little eye dart up at Dean.

Sam had learned how to make homemade hot chocolate from Jess, and had first made some for Dean while they were working a case in a very snowy, very cold town. Dean had been impressed with it, although he good naturedly ribbed Sam about it. From then on, when they had the chance and the extra cash, it was a treat they induldged in when they could which wasn't often. The fact that Sam had made it for him even though Dean had been a total jerk warmed him in a way that had nothing to do with the hot beverage.

He was trying to figure out how to say 'I'm sorry' without actually saying it when Sam finally looked him in the eye and quirked a grin. Dean quirked a grin back and settled on his bed to savour the chocolate.

"So, here's what I found," Sam started. "I was able to hack into the ME's files, which wasn't easy by the way, and he's saying that the recent death was an apparant heart attack, just like the others." He pulled a few papers towards him and picked them up to read over them a bit. "I'll be able to get more on the history of the house and the Stratford's at the library today, but from what little I've gotten so far, the Stratford's owned the house as far back as 1918."

Dean took the papers Sam offered and scanned the neat scrawl. "Okay, so they've owned the place for a really really long time. Any indication of deaths before now?"

Sam shook his head, started gathering things up and putting them in his bag. "No, I couldn't get that. I'm sure that once I hit the library I can find out."

"Alright, and I'll ask around, see what the locals have to say. Call the families ask them the usual." They prefered to interview victim's families in person, but since every victim in this instance was out of town, or even out of state, it would have to be over the phone.

"Sounds good. Meet back here around lunch?" Sam had his shoes and jacket on, the strap of his messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Dean shrugged and followed him out the door. "Fine." He noticed Sam pausing at a mirror and spared it a quick look, not finding much of interest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Where the Soul Resides**

**Black-Angel-001: wasn't sure this was too interesting to too many people but after seeing all the alerts...you like it, you really like it! well, maybe not that, but you are interested. so here we go in continuation**

**Where the Soul Resides**

The library was somewhere in the middle of town, on it's own street corner, and surrounded by little resturants, a coffee shop, a farmer's market, and a fish market. It was a small building, not more than two stories but Sam loved it. Because the town was small and nearly everyone local was descendant from someone who was there after the town was first built, they were very good at storing local history. It didn't take Sam long to find family histories, records about births, deaths, sales, and the like, and newspaper articles. While gathering all the information he could take to his table, Sam wished that all libraries were like this.

Dean's luck wasn't so grand. He'd called the families of the victim's first from their room, and got nowhere. Ever answer was, _"I can't believe it was a heartattack, he was so healthy!"_ or some variation of that. The only response different from that was a widow of the sixth victim, who said rather angrily,_ "I told the stupid bastard what would happen but no he just kept right on stuffing his stupid face with that disgusting food! If he'd have listened to me, he wouldn't have ended up dead, stupid bastard that he is, but of course he acted like I had no idea what I'm talking about! Well I'll tell you, my uncle is a doctor, well a shrink, actually, but he's been to medical school! He knows!"_ Dean was finally able to cut her off, thank her for her time, and hung up with a shake of the head and a muttered, "God, women!" before crossing her off the list and moving on to the next one.

Finally, all the families had been called and questioned but hadn't found anything useful. Glancing at his watch, he decided that he had at least an hour and a half before he had to meet Sam for lunch. Grabbing his jacket, Dean went to walk around the town and ask some questions.

Dean could admit that Sam was much better at talking to people, could get whatever he wanted out of them with just a look, but Dean knew how to get what he wanted too. He went to resturants with tables outside, asking older people who might have more history about the house. He went to the park, the pier and a few shops. He got more from these encounters, although it was basically the same information.

At one, Dean went back to the bed and breakfast and his and Sam's room. Sam was there already and scribbling in his notebook, glancing and going through printouts occassionally. He looked up when Dean came in.

"Hey," he said.

"What'd you find?"

Sam leaned back and stretched his arms over his head before linking his fingers together behind his head. "This place has been through a long set of owners, man."

"What do you mean?"

Sam sat forward again, tapping on his notebook. Dean sat at the table across from him and leaned over to look.

"I mean, this place was built in like, 1888, finished in 1889 and has been through about eight or ten owners since then. The Stratfords have owned it the longest but everyone else only stayed no more than four years."

"Why? What made them leave?"

Sam shrugged. "Far as I can tell, bad luck."

Dean frowned and thought back to what he'd learned. "Huh."

"What?"

"I talked to some locals today. They said the house is unlucky."

Sam's eyebrows lowered and drew together. "Why would they say that?"

"Oh, unexplainable accidents, people getting hurt, money problems, that sort of thing. And it's the thirteenth house on the block with exactly thirteen windows." Dean had confirmed that, he'd counted. "There's also thirteen steps on the staircase," he added with a jerk of a thumb to the door, indicating the stairs.

This time it was Sam's turn to go, "Huh."

"Okay, what's that mean?"

"Well, I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now that you've said that...the house number. It's 616."

"And," Dean drawled out.

"It the number of the beast," Sam said with a huff.

This time Dean frowned. "I thought the number of the beast was 666?"

"It was thought to be. But recently they did a new translation the earliest copy of the Book of Revelations, where it says the number of the Anti-Christ, and it was shown to be 616, not 666.*"

"What's this mean for us?"

"Well I didn't think it meant anything, but the number of the beast is supposedly just as unlucky as thirteen; both of them have been associated with the devil."

"So you're thinking some kind of devil worship? So, demons?"

"There's no sign of demon activity. No sulfur, no one suddenly acting out of character. I mean, with demons deaths are usually alot more violent and don't always stay in one location."

"Okay." Dean thought for a second. "Okay. So, maybe it's the numbers?"

Sam didn't look convinced. "But that would affect the owners more than guests, right? Sure, guests might get hurt occassionally, but dead like this? It doesn't make sense."

"Show me something that does," Dean muttered. Louder, he asked, "What else did you find?"

"Besides the run of bad luck every owner of this place seemed to have, there were plenty of unexplainable deaths. Pretty much any woman who came into ownership with her husband left a widow. In fact, every death has been of a male, 20's to 40's, all explained as a heart attack or something like that."

"Hm. Anything to tie anyone together?"

"If there is, I haven't found it yet. I've still got some research to go through and put together, and I'll need to go back to the library tomorrow."

Dean sighed. He really hoped they figured this out soon, the house was beginning to freak him out. Come on, seriously, a house built with bad luck numbers all through it plus a supernatural baddie they had no clue about? It made him edgy and that spot between his shoulders itch. Looking at Sam, he stood.

"C'mon, let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

Sam rolled his eyes as he stood. "When aren't you? How'd the phone calls go?"

"Man, don't ask," Dean replied as they were walking out.

Once again, Sam paused and glanced at the mirror hanging in the hall but Dean still didn't see anything special about it. Okay, sure it was probably old, cost alot, and was worth alot, but other than that what was the big deal? However, he didn't question his brother about it, instead started a debate about where to eat. The bed and breakfast provided breakfast and dinner to all guests, and opened the kitchen to them at all times except when those meals were being prepared. Since it wouldn't cost them anything at all to make themselves something, the brothers settled on that. With a plate full of at least two ham sandwhiches with the works, a glass of tea, and plenty of room at the table to themselves, they sat and enjoyed, talking quietly about the case.

*** May 2005: reportedly, scholars at Oxford University were able to read previously illegible portions of Revelation and determined that the actuall translation was 616, not 666, although other sources had previously determined that. **

**Also, while 13 is widely considered unlucky by many people, it's also considered to be lucky in many countries and cultures.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Where the Soul Resides**

Sam was going through records again, carefully making notes on anything that seemed important or that leaped out at him. He was completely in his element, surrounded by books, low lighting, and a silence that imitated a graveyard. Researching had always been his high spot, the thing he could beat Dean in everytime. Sure he was better than the average bear at the other stuff, weapons, hand to hand, all the stuff that Dean was really good at. But that was what evened them out; Sam had the knack for remembering lore most college proffessors didn't know, and Dean had the knack for the physical stuff. In the end, that was what made them a better team than most hunters.

It was also what made their differences stand so blaringly out sometimes, too. Not that that was a bad thing, either, but it was aggrivating sometimes. Sam shook his bangs out of his face (he was not going to get it cut, no matter how much Dean teased him about it) and got back to the grind stone that was the book in front of him. It was records of the families that had lived there, and records of all the men who'd died. He read them over and over again, knowing there had to be a pattern somewhere that connected all of the men, but unsure where it was just yet.

After a few hours, he rubbed his eyes, blinked to clear them some more, and started again. He was so close, he just had to...

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Cursing softly, Sam stood casually and headed for the corner with the restrooms, out of the librarians line of sight. After a quick read on the display at the name, he flipped it open and spoke quietly.

"Hey, Dean, what's up?"

"It happened again," his brother said grimly. "Another guy was just found dead in the house."

Sam frowned and turned, automatically scanning the area for any threats. He doubted any were in the library but like the old saying went, assumptions made asses. "How long ago did this happen?"

"I have no idea. I came back from walking the town and there were cops and the coroner everywhere," Dean replied. "Start heading back. We should see if we can't get any info from the coppers."

"Dean, they aren't going to say anything yet. Not while it's still being investigated," Sam told him, voice raising a bit. He quieted down when he spoke again. "Look, I'll hack into the police and coroners reports this evening. I mean, there's sure to be something then."

A burst of air sounded over the line. "Yeah, alright, if you say so."

Sam bit his lip, thinking. Dean hated the lack of action, Sam knew that, had known from the beginning. "On second thought," he trailed off for a minute. "Maybe you should ask them a few questions."

"A few minutes ago you're telling me it's a bad idea and now you're tellling me it's a good idea?"

"I didn't say it was a bad idea," Sam protested. "I just thought maybe they wouldn't say anything about it yet. But, I could be wrong. I mean, small town, pretty open with people. Who knows."

He waited for his big brother to take the bite. Finally, he heard Dean sigh again.

"Alright, fine. Yeah, maybe they'll say something here they won't say in the report," Dean said, warming up to the idea again. Sam grinned to himself. The best way to convince Dean to do something and do it with enthusiasm, Sam had found, was to make Dean think it was all his idea. Which it was to begin with, but Sam just had to build it all up again.

"And I'll still hack into the systems tonight and see what we get there."

"Cool. See you in a few."

"Right."

They hung up and Sam shook his head as he headed back to his table.

Dean didn't get too far with the police. They were friendly enough, said they couldn't really reveal much of anything yet. Or at least, the experienced ones did anyway. One of them, a rookie still learning the finer points of law enforcement, was happy to tell Dean anything like a gossiping teenager. It wasn't anything shocking, really, and he told Sam so that night when they were finally let back into the house and their rooms.

"Guy was early or mid twenties, kinda average; you know, brown hair, tallish, that sort of thing. Said they found him in front of a mirror."

Sam looked up sharply. "What? What mirror?"

Dean looked at him. "The mirror. The one in the hallway out there."

"The large brass one with all the scenes of Alice in Wonderland on it," asked Sam just to clarify.

"Uh, I guess so. Guy just said it was a big mirror in the hallway on the second floor."

While Dean was talking Sam had started to go through his notes and printed pages. "All the victims were found under that mirror." He and Dean shared a look.

"Okay, so what? Witchcraft or sorcery through the mirror?"

"Well, mirrors are considered to be gates or portayls to other worlds and dimensions." He gave a short laugh. "Actually, Lewis Carrol wrote a book about a little girl going through a 'looking glass' to the other side. In the story the world was the same as ours, just opposite-ish."

"And that has what exactly to do with this?" Dean knew that sometimes Sam thought up random things, and granted they usually did have something to do with the case, but he couldn't see how that had anything to do with their current situation.

Sam shrugged. "It's just that the mirror out there has scenes from Lewis Carrol's books on it and I thought it was kind of ironic is all."

Dean stared at him and shook his head. "All the weird shit we see and you think tha-" He stopped and thought a minute. "Hey, you might be on to something. Hey, what if the mirror was bewitched or cursed to be like in that story you mentioned? Huh?"

Sam straightened up and put his arms his knees, leaning on them. "What, that our vics are all going to Wonderland? Or something like it?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and spread his hands. Sam shook his head.

"I don't know Dean. I mean, why would it target men all in their 20's to 40's with similar characteristics instead of kids?" Sam blinked and frowned. In his mind he called up every file and bit of info on the vics that he could remember, trying to piece it together, look for the repeat instead of the singular. Similar characteristics? All the men were different ages, although many had the same age, but that wasn't it. Then he remembered his earlier conversation with Dean.

Brown hair. He recalled more, the details. They were all around six foot, with either brown hair or hazel eyes.

Sam blinked when he realized. Oh, shit. Dean wasn't going to be happy about that. He glanced at Dean, sitting on the bed and rubbing a hand over his mouth. Dean...didn't have to know, did he?

'_What_,' another part of his brain screamed at him. _'Of course Dean has to know! He's your partner, and you're big brother, doofus! He has a right to know on two counts_!'

But...he'd want to leave as quick as possible...

'_Damn straight he would, and with good reason! Why aren't you getting ready to head out the door, huh? You fit that profile pretty damn good, I'd say, got all three in one! So, dumbass, tell Dean and get the hell out of dodge! Why are you still sitting there_?'

Because too many people are dead already. I can't leave knowing there'll be more.

It may have been another part of his brain he was arguing with, but it was still his brain and it still fell victim to the same argument every time.

"If it's a story based type of thing, how the hell do we beat it? And will these guys come back if we do," Dean asked.

Sam hesitated, then shook his head. "Dean, Wonderland is literaly pretend. In real life, Carrol came up with it sitting on a boat telling it verbally. In the stories, the girl, Alice, falls asleep and dreams the entire thing after playing pretend in her head. Both times, she got out of it herself."

"Well, it's not like this would be the first thing we'd find that would start out as pretend, right," argued Dean.

"It's still really sketchy, man."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Dean lay back on the bed. "Still the best we've got."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I guess."

Dean glanced over at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just...just trying to figure it out is all," Sam said quietly. He wasn't lying, exactly. He really was trying to figure it out. He hesitated, then grabbed his notebook, flipping through the pages. "Huh," he said after he found what he was looking for.

"What?"

"The family that built and owned this house first? Their daughter's name was Alice."

Dean shrugged. "Could explain the mirror."

"Yeah, and it was the right time for both books to have been out." Sam threw the notebook back on the bed and scrubbed both hands over his face. God, he was tired.

Dean was watching him and knew it. "Let's get some sleep. Maybe we'll be able to think better."

Sam snorted. "One of us, anyway," he teased with a meaningful glance at Dean.

"I do think better after sleep. It just so happens that it's when I sleep after certain...night time activities," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows and a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're a jerk."

Dean settled further down into the bed, listening to Sam do the same. "Yeah, well, better to be a jerk than someone's bitch, Sammy." With that Dean flicked off the bedside lamp.

In the dark, Sam smiled when he realized that Dean had called him Sammy.


	6. Chapter 6

Where the Soul Resides

They were at the library again (well Sam was back again, it was Dean's first time in the building) going through old newspapers. They were now working on the theory that the mirror was the key to the whole thing, they just weren't sure how. After copying what they could, they headed to the town's court archive's. The clerk was more than willing to let them go through what they wanted, and just as willing to help. They pulled papers out, put them back, pulled them out. Dean's head was starting to hurt trying to read all the old fashioned handwritting and he wanted to go back to the room, eat, maybe get a nap. But they were on a job, and the job came first so he stuck it out.

"Huh," he said absently. Sam looked up at him, glanced at the paper Dean was holding, focused on his brother.

"What?"

"Got a police report here, about that family that owned the house first? What was their name, Eppes?" At Sam's nod, Dean went on. "Apparantly a neighbor filed a complaint about dear old dad beating his daughter."

"Really." Sam took the paper from Dean and read it over. "Huh."

Dean got up and searched through the records again, pulling out whatever he could on the Eppes. He read through them quickly. "Okay, we've got four more complaints, three from neighbors, one from the wife. All against Mr. Eppes for hitting his daughter. There's no record of arrest for any of these which means either they didn't file them or he wasn't ever arrested. I found the death certificate for Alice Eppes. It says the cause of death was natural causes from illness."

"That makes sense, considering how many kids died from diseases like TB, even the flu." Sam looked at everything then leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the table, thinking. "Maybe there's something else about the Eppes."

They found the bill of sale for the land the house was built on, the contract for the house to be built. They also found the paperwork regarding the Eppes going bankrupt and the house and everything in it going to the bank.

"Most of the furniture in that house now is probably original. Back then there weren't alot of estate auctions," Sam explained, writting some more. Dean shuffled through what he'd found.

"There's lotsa records about deaths on the property, from accidents. Falling off the roof, accidental stabbing in the kitchen, falling down stairs."

"Maybe the key to this thing is the house and the original family that built it," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Great."

"Alright, look, you can stay here and follow the trail and I'll go back to the library and follow it there. I'll meet you back here and we'll go over everything."

"Fine. See ya." Dean focused on a paper.

They both gathered what they could find, made copies where they could, and Sam met Dean back at the archives. They put together a rough time line.

"Okay, in 1889 the Eppes family moved into the newly finished house here in town. Things start to happen, deaths, accidents, Alice is sick, Harold Eppes's business is failing, and there's a fire that destroys the kitchen and Alice's room, both of which that are rebuilt." Sam spoke and scribbled at the same time.

"Right. Alice dies on November 18, 1894, same day she turns ten." Dean shook his head. "Poor kid. Bank gets everything in 1897, four years later."

"In that time, there aren't any deaths besides the accidental ones. Then a year later a family named the Martin's move in. More accidental deaths, children that are born that don't live longer than a year. Until about six months in and men are found dead with no apparent cause. Nothing that looks like it can be explained as an accident."

"Martin's are foced to move out in 1902, probably because of murder and child abuse allegations."

Sam nods. "That's what it looks like. A newlywed couple moves in that same year, moves out again a year and a half later. Except it's a widow moving out; four more men, including the husband, die."

Dean looks over the records he's holding, arranged according to year. "House is empty for pracically all of 1905. 1906 Dilbert family moves in. No deaths, just injuries, money problems, that sort of thing." He looks at Sam. "They lived there for 5 years."

Sam frowned. "And the Reid's move in 1911. They turned it into a boarding house and lived there for four years. There are 21 unexplainable deaths there, and again the husband is a victim."

"And now we come to the Stratford's. They've owned the house from 1918 til now, and turned it into a bed and breakfast. Looks like there were about 14 deaths a year until the depression, then it picked up again."

Sam read over what he'd written, made a few notations or notes. "It's always pretty consistant. The only time there really isn't any deaths is when the Dilbert's live there."

"Seems that way. Question is, why? Why weren't there any deaths when they were there, and during the depression?"

"Well the depression question is easy. No one's really got any work, everyone is hard hit by it all. If you don't have the money for food, you aren't gonna have the money for a room at a bed and breakfast."

Dean thought about it and nodded. "Point taken. Still doesn't explain the Dilbert's. Far as I can tell, they've just had some bad luck and nothing else."

Sam blinked and leaned forward. "All the families had bad luck, right? I mean, besides the dead men thing."

"Yeah Sammy, besides the dead men thing," Dean rolled his eyes.

"And you told me first couple of days we were here that people said the house was unlucky. Thirteenth house on the block and all that?"

Dean's eyes glittered. "So the accidents and stuff aren't related to the murders. Actually, those only happened after the Eppes moved out. Which means we've got a house full of bad luck and something that's killing men for no reason that we know of, yet."

Sam bit his lip, debating once again wether or not he should tell Dean. Before he could really make up his mind, Dean spoke again.

"Maybe it's got something to do with the little girl, Alice."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, daddy hits her, mom doesn't really do anything to stop it, dies kinda unxexpectedly. Sounds like good grounds for a vengeful spirit to me."

"Makes sense, I guess. I mean, all the vics lately fit her father's description in some way." Sam mentally slapped himself in the forehead.

"Yeah?" Dean grabbed Sam's notebook, knowing the information would be in there. He wasn't disappointed. He read the lines about the connection the victim's had, their appearances. He saw the connection between that and Harold Eppes. He focused, though, on what Sam had taken note of. Hazel eyes, brown hair, six foot and taller.

That could easily fit any one of thousands of men in the United States. Hell, in the world for that matter. But Dean was more concerned about the one man he knew for a fact it fit, very well actually. Dean looked up at Sam, anger and worry making his green eyes dark.

"_You son of a bitch_!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Where the Soul Resides**

**Black-Angel-001: i'm seriously considering just scrapping this and going on to something else.**

**Where the Soul Resides**

They were at some sort of park, Dean not daring to go back to the bed and breakfast. Despite the nice weather, there weren't many people there which suited the elder Winchester brother just fine. Sam was sitting on a bench, watching his brother pace a short distance two ways. Dean ran a hand through his hair, over his face, rubbing his mouth. He kept trying to figure out what to say to Sam, but he wasn't coming up with much.

'To hell with it,' he decided as he spun to face Sam. His little brother didn't shrink back from his glare and anger, instead he met it head on and unflinching. For some reason, it made Dean angrier.

"You fucking _knew_," he accused. "You fucking knew and you didn't fucking tell me!" He still couldn't quite wrap his head around that.

"I didn't see the point. If I did, you'd want to leave and more men would die. Dean, we can stop this, we have to," Sam implored.

"You're damn right I want to leave! What the hell were you thinking, Sam? Or were you? Do you want to kill yourself?" Dean held up a hand as if to stop anything Sam may have said. "You know what, don't answer that. You should have told me, Sam. Why didn't you?"

"Because I-" Sam stopped. That was a good question. Why hadn't he told Dean? It wasn't because he knew Dean would want to leave. It also wasn't because he wanted to save lives-at least, not entirely. When he really thought about it, Sam realized he was trying to find a way to save himself. He knew something was...off, about himself, something connected to a demon, and it scared Sam shitless. The fear came back and kicked him square in the balls everytime he and Dean found out more about the demon and the others like Sam. So yeah, Sam was trying to prove to himself that despite all evidence to the contrary, he wasn't evil or associated with it in that way.

He just wasn't sure he could tell Dean that either.

The silence on Sam's part lasted longer than Dean could stand. "Forget it. I should've known you wouldn't tell me. Just keep your little secrets Sam, don't trust me with them."

That made Sam look at him incredulously. "Trust you with them? Dean, you barely trust me with the crap you're holding in. Of course I'm not gonna bug you with my own stuff!"

"You don't need to worry about me, I'm fine," grit out Dean. "And that's besides the point-"

"Oh? You think so? If you want to make this about trust we'll make it about trust, Dean. You don't trust me on hunts, you don't trust my opinion. Hell, you barely trust me to have your back anymore!"

"And what about you, Sam? This just proves you don't trust me, either!"

"No, this just proves I'm willing to do whatever I have to to make sure no more innocent people die!"

By that point Sam was standing as well. He wasn't toe to toe with his brother, but close enough Dean had to look up, just a little, if he wanted to look Sam in the eye. Dean's eyes narrowed at Sam's last statement.

"What by getting yourself killed? How is that good for anything in the long run?"

"It'll get me our of your hair, I figured you'd be all over that," Sam shot out.

Dean looked taken aback and Sam felt a little guilty, but only for a second. Because as soon as the expression was on his face it was gone again, replaced by the icy cold, angry indifference Dean had graced him with the past few months.

"At this point, it sounds like a dream come true," Dean said in the tone to go with the look.

Hurt flashed through Sam. He knew Dean took his anger and grief out on him alot, often disappeared to get some space, but did Dean really think Sam gone for good was a dream come true? Dean didn't say things lightly, tended to say what he thought, what he felt, and generally he meant them. Was this one of those times?

The fight deflated out of Sam and his shoulders slumped. He ducked his head, using his bangs to help hide his face. When he did finally look back up and Dean, there wasn't a hint of apology on his face, nothing to indicate he hadn't meant it. Sam gave him a self depreciating grin.

"Then you shouldn't have a problem with sticking around," he said in way of parting before he turned on his heel and strode away, in the direction of the bed and breakfast.

Dean stared after him a second before he followed silently

Sam entered the house with the feelings of hurt and anger still fresh in his mind. He paused at the bottom of the staircase, looked up the steps. The lights flashed on and off, on and off, before staying on with less glow. Sam heard Dean come in behind him and the anger inside flared brightly over the hurt. The lights flickered again.

"That hasn't happened before," Dean said about the lights. He took a good look around and saw nothing. He frowned. When they'd left, there had been people around. Now, they were nowhere to be found. "Sam, where is everyone?"

Sam looked around and saw the same thing as Dean: nothing and no one. "I have no idea." He looked back up the stairs and slowly headed up them.


End file.
